World On My Shoulders
by charlieway
Summary: The Wizarding World is spiralling down into an explosive finale, but the way is paved with suffering and guilt.


Title: World On My Shoulders  
Chapter title: Reliefs  
Author: Charlieway  
Pairing: Draco x Harry  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Violence, language, h/h, possibly disturbing scenes  
Disclaimer: All situations and characters are the property of J. K. Rowling, whose imagination has sparked many a mind into similar circumstances to me.

Noises spilt forward in the cacophony that was Kings Cross. His mother stood in the centre, the focal point for him, against rushing families, embraces, blurs of colour that meant nothing- too tall and too thin, fair, silent and shadowy, as if one went to touch her their hand would pass right through to the other side.

"Mother," He paused, wishing only that the gaping silence that had passed between them so often would fill itself in with a ghost of warmth he could barely recall.

Her face did not change, her mouth still tight in the corners. She held in her pleads and questions and comforts and assurances that everything would be all right, and created and maintained her manner as if he had said nothing at all. Draco wanted to yell and smash things.

He didn't know what to do, how to deal with his mother in her existing state. The constant ring of failure; her constant questioning; her lingering hand on his shoulder. The very same mother who wrote him letters that were curt and polite, signed Narcissa.

Everything had changed that summer, as he well knew it would. It ended in a promise to Harry Potter, who had brought the scaffold of his very life crumbling down around him. He had come home to a mother who forgot to eat and sleep, who touched but did not smile; to forbidden rooms; to whispers and arrangements and promises of glory and redemption in every corner.

He looked into her silent face and did not recognize it. There was no longer anything there that was his own.

"Mother," he tried again.

Her voice soft, she saved the silence, "Just," her long fingers, as quick as death and firebolts and first kisses, ghosted his cheek in an unsure gesture of affection, "Just be good."

He nodded, saying nothing, and passed through the barrier to the train alone.

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Everything had changed. There was no second-guessing, no second chances, and a whole lot of guilt and remorse thrown blanket like over eyes that needed to see. Sympathy came from every which way – the events had left no one untouched. Those closest mourned; wizards and muggles alike lost a protective void between security and destruction. The Dark Lord had triumphed, and Harry felt his own life dripping away.

Anger flooded through every part of him. Anger at himself for being so helpless, for believing, for relying so much on one person, for being so close that it stung harder than any blow he could receive; anger, hate, loathing, disgust for his father's childhood enemy, a man no one could trust, and he'd know it… Harry had known it all along. Anger wasn't all that he felt.

Contempt.

Frustration.

Sadness.

Joy. Brief, subtle moments, but they were there.

'It's the safest place for you, Harry. Whatever wounds are still open; you have to close them, and have to leave it behind. You're seventeen and Privet Drive is no longer a place where you can't be touched. Go back to Hogwarts, Harry. Stay as safe as you can this year. It'll be your last chance.'

If Dumbledore can die inside those safe walls, what's stopping anything from happening to me?

"… Harry," Molly mothered, hugging him tight, "Stay safe."

His eyes stung. There was no lecture this year; she didn't know what to say. There were endless possibilities to what could happen, and exactly how safe he would be. Harry drew back from her, throwing one of those 'I'll be okay' smiles that were all too common these days. Molly Weasley saw the smile on his lips, but not his eyes – Lily's eyes – it was in times such as these that Harry did not seem recognisable. So much pain for such a young man, she would say later with Arthur.

"Bye, Mrs. Weasley." Safe, safe, safe Harry at Hogwarts. It was all anyone seemed to care about these days.

"Don't worry, Harry, it'll be over soon." Remus, what would I do without him? "Be strong, Harry." Don't you dare cry, not again, not now. Steel yourself against moments like this – they'll be coming head on for a long time coming.

Harry found an empty compartment, eyes wandered outside to his family. Hermione and Ron were getting the 'Take care of him' lecture.

As if they didn't have enough to worry about, to have to worry about him even more than they already did. He felt sorry for them. They had been dragged into this behind him, and that was his fault. Guilt. So many emotions now, that he didn't know what to think or feel. He was numb. Not the same Harry, and he never would be again.

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Nothing about this felt familiar.  
It was like new shoes in which your feet felt stiff inside, toes curling against the souls.

The large, steaming train, red and gold printed, taking him away from home—away from a place where no one judged, where no one stared, where no one whispered, "Death Eater."

The large crowds of students swelled, and fell as they shuffled into the compartments. None of their faces were familiar, because all those familiar faces were gone.

It all felt wrong. Because he was a coward, a death eater's son and he didn't belong.

Silently, he boarded the train, face burning with an unfamiliar sensation that enraged him. Draco kicked his truck hard into an empty compartment, and kicked it again for something that felt like relief. He sat down hard, hating everything, wanting to be home with his insane mother, wanting her silence and touches and comforts that everything would be all right. He needed that, because it was familiar.

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Pressed up against the window, forcing himself to smile and wave at the frantic group beside the train – Auror's, family, friends; all afraid of what was going to happen, each of them trying desperately to make it okay. Harry wasn't afraid anymore; nothing could be as bad as this. Nothing could be as bad as what he had already been through. Nothing could be that bad.

Hermione and Ron pressed their way through distraught first-years, children of parents that let them come – why should life come to a sudden stop if it had just a little bit more risk than before, you can die any day, and you can survive too – their hands were linked tighter than he had seen them before, maybe he saw this as a small glimmer of hope. Or something quite close to it.

"Hiya, Harry."

"There are more of them than I thought there would be."

"Holding up okay, mate?"

"Of course he is, Ronald, it's only a train ride. Right, Harry?"

"Yeah, but I was just asking."

"I know, but Harry's okay."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"And he will be all right."

"I know, I was just making conversation."

"Yeah, and now you are getting defensive. Harry's fine."

"Okay, 'Mione, I-…"

"Would you stop talking about me like I'm not here!" Harry growled, "I'm not—" No, he stopped. This wasn't fair. And as the train began to slowly creep away, he got to his feet, "Getting air, and food. Want anything?" Ron went to put in an order, but Hermione quietened him with a squeeze to his hand, and Harry left.

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He felt far too small for his compartment, even stretched out as much as was physically possible, legs propped against the opposite bench, crossed at the ankles. The absence of Crabbe and Goyle made him feel all the more alienated—They would nod at everything and laugh when he wanted them to and perhaps for one glorious second he could forget about death and blood and large painful brandings. But then, they were off doing as Death Eater sons were supposed to do which didn't ease him at all.

He shifted, turning to one hip and then over to the other, restless with anger at what he wasn't sure.

Perhaps it was the anger at his mother for being so weak; at his father for choosing for him; at the sun because it was too bright, intensified by the window; at Harry Fucking Potter, the boy who should have died because everything was his fault because he was living and wouldn't stop.

He shifted again, and again and again and again, anxious and edgy and tense and tired and angry and fucking everything.

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He was The Boy Who Cannot Die, after all. Who cared that he lived anymore, when he couldn't die. People died around him, people who shouldn't have innocent people. It was his fault. That was the point. Guilt was lacking too much emotion to even just barely describe how he felt. His parents, Cedric, Dumbledore and countless others that deserved nothing they got.

When would he stop feeling this way, could he? Would he be haunted for the rest of his life by this – and after the war, what then? And what if he couldn't defeat Voldemort, as everyone seemed to think that he could.

You can't do it. How are you different from any of these people?

The only people in the hallways now were seventh years, or prefects. He hadn't been made a prefect, he thought he would be, but did it matter? His parents were, they were Head Boy and Girl – the same was expected of him. I should feel disappointed, he thought. But there was nothing but emptiness within him, nothing but a heartless apathy for it all.

Burning eyes, filled with burning tears. He wouldn't let them fall, couldn't, shouldn't. Strong, Harry, be strong enough for everyone around you to cry.

His resilient façade that had been up for weeks, and months, fell suddenly, amongst whispers and strangers who had no comfort for him. He slumped against the wall of the narrow corridor, and cried for the first time in a long while.

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His head would not stop thinking and he desperately wished it would- just shut down for a moment let and everything go black and let that black fall around him like a blanket.

But it didn't, of course and in a spurt of rage he lashed out again kicking hard at the seat in front of him, the muscles in his leg tensing and then spitting pains both up and down.

He stood up, sore and angry. He needed air and company and chocolate.

He opened the door to the compartment with force, its panes rattling as it struck the opposite side. He didn't bother to shut it before heading down the left.

The corridor was long and constant, every door the same, every face behind them staring and that was half comforting. He turned back and went the other way, seeing the same doors and the same blurry faces because they were unvarying, and he liked that. That was until the way became tighter, students slowing and gathering as if at the mouth of a funnel. He pushed past with the same force he had become prone to.

And there it was.

The end of his life, he decided, because everything was destined to change on him.

Harry Potter. Harry God Damn Potter on the floor, crying like a small child would cry before nap.

Harry Potter didn't cry.

Harry Potter faced dragons and werewolves and Dark Lords.

He. Did. Not. Cry.

"You're pathetic."

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Not now. Not at the one time when everything he'd been holding inside flooded out, and choked and drowned and somehow made things seem a little better. Not now. Couldn't it have been Hermione who came out and found him, and gave him chocolate, and her hugs? Was that too selfish a feeling to want, and need right then? But, no, no it had to be the one person he'd kill without a second thought, and maybe enjoy doing it.

After a moment of silence, or as silent as it could be over the chatter of his peers, Harry spoke, didn't even look up.

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

It wasn't even really speaking; it was none of the things he wanted to say, all of the things he'd run over in his head. It was none of those. It was only a reaction to the one person in this world that he did not want to be near in that moment, yet was, and somehow needed to be. Somehow it made sense, that his feeling could bite as they certainly couldn't around those he loved.

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Something clicked on, perfect with the slow hum of electricity warming up inside him.

"Fuck me, Potter? Really-no. Fuck you." A sneering smile fell around his lips, kicking violently at the corners, but not quite reaching his eyes.

This was familiar. This was home.

"This is what the muggle world rests its faith in—a cry baby? Poor them." He laughed, short with malice, throwing his head back with theatrical flair.

He was baiting him and it was obvious. It was the tactful equivalent of "Granger's a mudblood", "Weasley is poor" or "your parents are dead. I hate you. Die please. Long and painful, preferably with a lot of blood." And he just knew Potter would lash out, with words or fists or both. Where the insults changed with each case, varying in malevolence, the end result was always the same and the satisfaction that came with making Potter's face red, and his fist white was always the same too.

And he always won. Even if he bled or bruised he won. Because Potter never could walk away. He trusted that.

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Every single part of him, every fibre in his body cried jubilantly, Confrontation! Scream, bite, kick. There was nothing quite like it, the sensation he got every time he didn't have to face things civilly.

Harry got to his feet, ignoring the fuzzy feeling in his head, the numbness in his limbs. I wouldn't have to do this alone if it weren't for you! He screamed inside, selfishly, for he was not alone – Hermione, Ron, his family and friends, the whole (or a large majority) of the wizarding world was there to back him up. But what did that matter?

His fists clenched by his sides, hand not even reaching for his wand, for what satisfaction could that bring that physical violence could not increase ten-fold.

"Shut your fucking face," He said, teeth gritted hard together, you did this you bastard, "You killed Dumbledore!" With that one sentence, that one half sentence, Harry felt as though some kind of weight was lifted from him. He didn't kill Dumbledore, it wasn't his fault! He admitted it.

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"Shut your fucking face."

He had been anticipating that.

Words with no thought, all anger. Hot and hard and fast with little coherency to them at all. He knew those words, and found comfort in their scratching familiarity.

The second bit however hit hard and sudden and unexpected, like running with your eyes closed and right into a brick wall. He was winded.

His mouth open, words failing him completely, his tongue thick in his mouth.

He wanted to hurt him then, suddenly. Not with words.

He wanted to hit him right in the bridge of those stupid glasses; he wanted them to crunch under his fist.

He wanted Potter's face to bleed on his hands.

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He got no verbal reply.

He was satisfied by whatever nerve he might have hit.  
But not satisfied enough.

"Hit home, have I?"

A malevolent smile found his lips, his first true smile that meant something other than 'Yeah, I'm going to be fine.'  
Because he felt something other than the need to cradle precious feelings in his weak arms.

"Go on, hit me."

Daring, almost, hoping entirely.


End file.
